


Winter Sounds Like This Sometimes

by Vrunka



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cheating, M/M, More of Jean being an idiot, Parties, Slight mention of Krista/Ymir, Underage Drinking, Vomiting, hangovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1213291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean doesn't know why he goes to the party. The music's too loud, the drinks are too potent and God damnit, he misses Marco. Semi-quasi-sequel to Old College Try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Sounds Like This Sometimes

Jean doesn’t know what compels him to go to the party.

“End of the semester”, the girl had said, leaning over his desk, her hair brushing his notes, “it’s gonna be the biggest party of the year.”

Maybe it was that. The prospect of being part of something huge. Or maybe it was the fact that someone had asked him, had actually gone out of their way to ask him. Granted, she hadn’t known his name, but that isn’t the point. Jean had practically been waiting the entire semester for someone other than Marco or Connie to notice him.

Marco had turned him down when he’d asked.

“It’s not really my thing,” Marco had said, adjusting his shirt. His pants had still been undone. Jean had run his fingers over the stretch of skin below Marco’s belly button, just to watch Marco’s expression waver. “Wouldn’t have thought it was your thing either, really.”

“I don’t know,” Jean had admitted. He’d frequented plenty of parties in high school. College had seemed like the place to break the childish habit.

Until now.

The music is pounding. Impossibly loud. A benefit of being off-campus, less restrictions.

Jean catches a glimpse of the girl who had invited him. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Perfect, slim hips. She’s dancing, swaying with the beat, grinding up on another girl. Just as hot, tan and freckled. Like Marco. Jean swallows down his drink, wincing as the whiskey and coke that’s more whiskey with a touch of coke bites into his cheek, and turns to get another.

He’s supposed to be here to have fun. Or something.

But he can’t help wishing that Marco had come with him.

The girl hadn’t lied. The party is huge, freshman to seniors packed into the frat house. Jean has to yell to get the kid who is acting as bartender’s attention and then wait ten minutes before a glass of something is pushed over to him.

He doesn’t really get why they just didn’t spring for a couple of kegs. It would have made serving easier to be sure.

But then again, beer isn’t as potent as tequila.

The liquid burns against Jean’s tongue, reminding him of high school all over again. Too many mornings spent bent over a toilet. He fights his gag reflex and swallows it down.

“The drinks kind of suck, don’t they?” Someone is yelling. It takes Jean a minute to realize they’re talking to him.

He looks to his right. Another blond. But a boy this time. Or. Well, maybe more like a man.

The guy is huge, square-jawed and tall and made of muscles.

Like one-hundred and ten percent at least.

Jean’s mouth goes dry. But that might have something to do with the alcohol and the sudden ‘oh god I’m going to puke’ pull of his stomach. He ignores it, drowns the feeling down with another mouthful of straight, shitty tequila.

“Kinda,” he says, finally. Feeling about as lame as he must look.

“You a freshman?” the guy asks, leaning closer. Leaning down. Jean had never thought himself short before that moment. Compared to this guy, he’s like a child. Another shot of tequila. Quick and sliding.

“That obvious?”

The guy shrugs. “You just looked uncomfortable.” It’s the first time Jean has ever heard that. Parties used to be his scene. But then again, he’d never had someone to remain faithful to before. God fucking damn it, he misses Marco. The guy is holding his hand out. It’s the size of Jean’s head. “I’m Reiner.”

“Jean.”

Jean takes the hand, fits his own awkward numb fingers into the spaces allotted them. Numb?

Shit.

Everything is swimming. Sideways. Sudden and spinning.

Oh god damnit.

Jean tries to open his mouth and warn Reiner because Reiner needs to know what’s about to happen but as soon as Jean does his body rejects the tequila and he’s vomiting all over Reiner’s feet.

And his own shirt.

And their hands.

“Holy fuck.” Reiner is saying as it happens, but his voice is distant.

Which makes no sense because Jean is still holding their vomit covered hands together.

He sort of half-falls, face mashing against Reiner’s chest—and wouldn’t you know it his chest is just as firm as his hand, like a fucking rock pushing into Jean’s cheek—and he hears someone laugh. Reiner is talking, when Jean rolls his head to look up at him, Reiner’s lips are moving.

But he can’t hear the words.

They’re lost in the music.

He looks mad though and Jean knows he has every right to be. He knows he should be standing up and apologizing and, like, cleaning up his puke, but he can’t seem to make his legs work right.

“I’m sorry,” he says as Reiner pushes him up straight. Holds him in place with those scary big hands.

Reiner frowns. Scowls, really. Disapproval looks natural slashed across his features. Jean swallows. It tastes acrid. He winces and Reiner’s expression softens just a little bit.

“I’m really, really sorry,” Jean continues. Unable to help himself. He braces his hand on Reiner’s arm, tries holding himself steady and fails.

People are staring.

The realization is a little startling.

“You’re really, really drunk,” Reiner tells him, like it’s news.

Jean bites his lip, grinning slightly. Reiner smiles back. There’s a hopelessness in it. Jean is pretty used to that. Reiner’s hand is touching his neck, fingers brushing against one of the bruises Marco left only a few hours earlier. His hand is sticky with Jean’s vomit.

Jean doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, besides the drunkenness, but he leans into that touch.

“We should get you cleaned up,” Reiner says.

Not mad. He doesn’t sound mad anymore. His voice is pitched low. It’s a wonder Jean can hear him over the music at all.

This is bad.

Jean knows it.

But he can’t exactly stop it.

Reiner turns, letting Jean hold his own weight, which really just means letting gravity take over and Jean ends up plastered to Reiner’s back. Arms looped over Reiner’s shoulders. He lifts Jean like he weighs nothing.

A piggyback.

Jean buries his face in Reiner’s shoulders and only kind of wishes he were dead.

Marco wouldn’t have let him get this sloppy.

But he hasn’t done anything unforgivable yet.

Yet.

Reiner says something Jean can’t hear to one of the other guys at the bar. Jean can’t even bring himself to look at the crowd around them.

Thank god there’s only four fucking days left in the semester.

The girl who had invited him is among them. Her pretty dancing partner is too. She really doesn’t look very much like Marco, her eyes are too small, too cold. Jean presses his fingers against Reiner’s collar bone. He closes his eyes as Reiner starts to walk, but the sensation of movement and music without the visual gathers in the pit of his stomach like sea sickness and Jean has to open them. Somehow he doesn’t think Reiner would be so forgiving if Jean vomited on his head.

They move through crowds and a kitchen and up some stairs and Jean lets himself get lost in his own head.

The feel of Reiner’s shoulders under his arms.

“Are you a senior?” he asks the back of Reiner’s head.

He can’t see Reiner’s expression, but his head tilts slightly to the side. “Nah. Junior.”

“Oh,” Jean breathes. They’ve reached a landing. The world is dark above them. Jean feels dizzy when he tilts his head back too far. “You’re really,” Jean doesn’t know what he was intending to say, he squints. Reiner’s hair is clipped short, but it still brushes Jean’s forehead as Jean leans his head forward again. “You’re really strong.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“I. I am really sorry I threw up on you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Reiner says, and it sounds like he means it. They turn into a room and Jean only has a brief moment to take in his surroundings, two beds, soccer posters, desk top computer, laptop, bookshelf covered in action figures, and then he’s dropped onto the bed and all he can see is Reiner. “Gimme your shirt.”

“Not going to buy me dinner first?” Jean asks. The alcohol has made him bold.

And really fucking stupid.

He’s really, really, really going to regret this.

But things with Marco are going nowhere fast. They haven’t worked past where they got that first time, just after Thanksgiving break. Mostly just eating lunch and dinner together, making out instead of studying, quickie handjobs. And it isn’t that Jean doesn’t enjoy what they do, because he does, but he wants more and every time he tries Marco sort of brushes him off. Or jerks him off until he stops talking.

It isn’t good communication.

Jean’s always been good at bad communication.

But that doesn’t justify this.

Even drunk he knows that.

“How much did you drink?” Reiner asks, raising an eye brow.

Jean shrugs. Closes his eyes and grins. Shifting to take his shirt off.

When he opens his eyes everything is different.

His head feels like it’s bursting, brain too big for the space afforded it. Oozing. His eyes are burning, tears gathered at the corners. He wipes them away with the back of his hand. When he puts his hand back down, he doesn’t rest it on bedding. It’s touching flesh.

He sits up fast.

Too fast.

It feels like driving a knife through his skull.

Reiner is lying next to him. Fast asleep. Curled on his side. Spooned. It’s the only way they could have fit on the bed together.

Jean’s going to be sick.

Again.

Reiner’s only wearing a pair of boxers.

The blanket has been kicked to the foot of the bed.

Jean cradles his hung-over head in his hands.

He deserves the headache, the sickness. He deserves worse.

He’s also only wearing boxers. But they aren’t his. They’re too big; the elastic only just hugs his hips. When he wriggles out of the bed, they threaten to fall off. Jean holds them up with one hand.

Someone is in the other bed he had noted.

Jean can make out a human-shaped lump in the blankets.

He needs to wake one of them and find out what happened.

But that would mean facing it, facing what he did, what he had to have done, and Jean just can’t handle that. Not right now. Not feeling as shitty as he is. He finds his jeans, inside out by the bathroom door. He pulls them on. He doesn’t know where his shirt is, but there’s a hoodie on the floor and Jean slips it on. Technically its stealing, but Jean can’t find it in him to care at the moment.

Reiner mutters something in his sleep, rolls onto his back, taking up the space Jean vacated.

Marco is going to kill him, or he’s going to cry and curse Jean out and be justifiably angry and then he’s going to leave. And that’ll be so much worse.

The light from the hall burns Jean’s eyes.

He can’t fathom what sunlight is going to feel like. He pulls the hood up, digs into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone.

One missed call.

Umbrella Guy.

Jean’s guilt eats at his stomach, sharper than the hangover. He dials the number back.

“How was the party?” Marco is smiling, he always answers the phone with a smile and almost never with a hello.

Jean swallows. His mouth tastes like morning, but that’s better than vomit. “I…I’m not home yet.” He doesn’t know what else to say. He pushes out of the frat house and into the sunshine. It’s daggers in his eyes, a highway of tightness down into his stomach. Jean drops the phone from his ear and throws up into the bushes by the door.

“Jean? Hey come on this isn’t funny?” Marco’s voice sounds so small, coming from the ground. Jean holds his stomach until it feels like he has nothing left in him. “Jean! Jean, I’m serious. Please.”

“I’m here,” Jean says. Weak. Shaky. Marco sighs at the other end of the line and Jean doesn’t deserve that. He can’t remember what he did, but he knows it was bad.

“Are you okay?”

“Not at all,” Jean says. Truthfully. But he can hear Marco chuckle and he realizes it must have sounded over-dramatic. Melodramatic. Jean bites his lip. “I mean it.”

“I’m sorry. You still drunk?”

“Ugh. Don’t even say that word to me. I’m never, ever, going out again. Ever.”

Marco laughs for real this time. Jean digs his nails into his palm. “I’ll be sure to remind you of that.”

“Can I,” Jean looks down. Fights back to standing. “When I get back can we talk?”

“Talk? You aren’t just looking for someone to look after your hungover ass, are you?” Marco asks. And Jean doesn’t doubt that Marco would do just that, despite how he says it. Water and aspirin and perfect, caring touches.

“No. I mean talk.”

Maybe some of Jean’s tone soaks in this time, Marco doesn’t sound like he’s smiling. “Yeah, sure thing,” he says. He doesn’t sound scared either though, or upset, just puzzled. “See you in what? Like ten?”

“Make it twenty,” Jean says. Taking another step, fighting down his stomach. He can’t imagine the rest of the walk, doesn’t want to dwell on feeling this shitty.

“Yeah, okay.” Marco says. There’s a pause at the end, between his words and the click of the line disconnecting. Jean wonders, if he hadn’t gone and fucked everything up if one day there would be an ‘I love you’ in that space. It hurts too much to think about too deeply. Jean shoves his phone in his pocket and resumes his walk of shame back to his dorm.

 

Jean is hardly surprised that Connie is still around when he gets back. His roommate tips his head as Jean pushes the door open.

“You were out late,” Connie says.

“Yeah I guess. Can I,” Jean swallows, leans back on the door to shut it. “I’m gonna need the room for a bit.”

“Is Marco coming over?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Jean should be grateful that Connie has been so cool about everything, but he can’t think past what he has to tell Marco, past his headache and his stomach.

“Dude,” Connie says, standing and crossing to his closet, pulling out a coat, “you smell like puke.”

“I was at a party.”

“I mean, I guess. But you should probably shower or something. You’re rank.”

Jean steps away from the door, frowning. He had thrown up once more before getting back to his room and spent a few minutes dry-heaving outside of the dining hall, besieged by the smell of cooking coming from inside. More than anything, he wants to curl up and wait for Marco, to let Marco tend to him. But he can’t. He has to do the right thing, he absolutely has to.

“You’ll text me when you two are done, right?” Connie asks, holding the door open. He thinks they’re going to fuck. Connie doesn’t understand. Stupid, innocent Connie.

Jean shrugs. “Sure.” And Connie grins and nods and pulls the door shut behind him. Jean thinks about locking it, then decides against it. He turns the overhead light off, headache retreating somewhat with the darkness.

He’s no more than crossed the room and collapsed into his bed then there’s a knock at the door.

“It’s open,” Jean groans, each knock breaking like a hammer across his brain.

He doesn’t look up, or open his eyes, but Marco’s chuckle is unmistakable.

“Jesus, Jean,” Marco says, closing the door behind himself, “you look like shit.”

Which is probably true. Jean hasn’t hit up a mirror since before he left last night. He turns his head away from Marco’s voice, keeping his eyes shut tight. Unlike Connie’s voice, which had dug at his head like nails, Marco’s is soothing. It’s unfair and Jean hates himself.

The mattress dips with Marco’s weight. His hand runs along Jean’s side.

“And you smell.”

“So Connie told me,” Jean mutters. Cracking his eyes open. Marco is smiling, head tilted slightly to look down at Jean’s face. What was he thinking? How could he ruin this? But it’s done now.

Marco touches the hem of Jean’s shirt, tugs it slightly. “I thought you didn’t want me to come over just to pamper you,” he says with a smile, “you’re such a liar.”

Jean tenses. Forces himself to sit up. The too-long sleeves of the hoodie that isn’t his cover his hands as he grips his head. “Yeah,” he says, slowly. “I. That is we, we need. Need to talk?” Jean can’t find the conviction he needs to. He licks his lips. “I should never have gone to that stupid party.”

“Is your hangover that bad?” Marco asks, reaching out to touch Jean’s face. So open and easy. As he’s always been. His thumb swipes Jean’s bangs away from his forehead.

The words stick in Jean’s throat. Catch on his teeth. “No, Marco. It isn’t. I don’t know. I don’t even really,” he swallows. Trying to put the words in order. To keep everything together. But it’s getting harder, Marco’s small patient smile is making it harder. Jean’s eyes ache, he closes them. He wants to be mad at Marco, as mad at Marco as he is at himself, but he can’t force the anger. Can’t get it to spark. Even though Marco hadn’t come with him, this whole thing is Jean’s fault.

“I met this guy,” Jean says. Starting somewhere.

Marco’s smile doesn’t budge an inch. “Yeah, I know,” he says. But he couldn’t know. He couldn’t and still be smiling like that.

“No. Listen, you don’t--,”

“You’re talking about Reiner, right?”

“Huh?”

“Reiner? You vomited all over him.”

“How did you…” Jean trials off. When he tries to think back, fighting through the fog keeping his brain hostage, the last thing he remembers is pulling his shirt off. He doesn’t remember texting Marco. Or calling. Or anything. “I texted you last night?”  
Marco tips his head. “You don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember,” he admits.

Marco’s smile folds into itself. “What was it you were going to tell me?” He sounds wary now, his hands are back in his lap.

“I don’t remember anything specific,” Jean starts, weakly. Trying to build some sort of excuse. He’d woken up basically naked in bed with another dude, there’s nothing to defend. No excuses he can make. He bites his lip and looks down. “But I. When I woke up this morning. That is I mean, I think I may have. Cheated?” The word comes out as barely a whisper. Jean curls his legs up, lowering his head to his knees.

He can’t bring himself to even look at Marco.

“Is that what you think happened? Or do you know it?” Marco asks. His voice is stilted. He’s going to start crying. Or Jean is. The end is inevitable. Jean can’t get his head straight, can’t remember anything but pulling his shirt up, over his head.  
“I don’t know. I think. I’m,” he wants to touch Marco, run his hands along his legs or neck. But he can’t. He can barely keep himself breathing. Everything hurts, more than just his hangover. “I know you can’t ever forgive me,” he says, looking up from his knees, “but I’m so fucking sorry, Marco.”

Marco swallows. He doesn’t look mad or sad. He’s just there. Vacant.

“You didn’t sleep with Reiner, Jean.” Marco says. Despite his expression, he sounds confident enough.

“You don’t know that.”

“And you can’t remember.”

“But, I--,”

“You weren’t the one texting me,” Marco says, picking his feet up to sit cross-legged on the bed, “Reiner was.”

Jean blinks. It’s like the world has been pulled out from under him. For one second he wonders if he’s still drunk, hearing things. But after a moment, and a drawing sense of sickness at the thought of alcohol, he realizes that’s not the case.  
“Explain.” He means please. But he can’t get the words to come out right. From guilty to hurt in the span of a second.

“He’s two levels below me in French,” Marco says, palming the back of his neck. He seems to sense Jean’s mood, “I’ve been tutoring him all semester.” But that doesn’t answer any of Jean’s questions. “Last night, you texted me a couple of times, but they were barely legible. I knew the party was at Reiner’s frat house so I just…”

“You sent someone to check up on me?” Jean can’t help the edge to his tone. More than hurt now, scandalized. Marco hadn’t trusted him. Never mind that Jean almost did end up doing something horrible, Marco hadn’t even trusted him not to. The anger he hadn’t been able to muster before is more than ready to surface. He still feels like his breathing is off, but for a completely different reason now.

“It isn’t like that,” Marco says, raising his hands. Jean looks away. He doesn’t know what it was like. All he knows is at this moment he hates both himself and Marco. “Would you just listen to me, Jean?”

Begrudgingly, and in a move that is stunningly mature for Jean, he looks over at Marco.

“I was just trying to make sure you hadn’t drank yourself out of it, that you hadn’t passed out or given yourself alcohol poisoning or something,” Marco says.

“I’m not some kid, I know how much my body can handle,” Jean mutters.

“Which is why you look so good right now. And why you can’t remember anything that happened. What did you think? That you let Reiner fuck you? Did you want him to?” Marco asks. His tone is surprisingly soft, gentle. He touches Jean’s knee and Jean doesn’t have it in him to push Marco away.

Had he wanted him to?

Even as he’d smiled and pulled his shirt off he’d known he would regret it.

“Not really.” Jean says.

“Do you remember crying?” Marco asks.

“I didn’t cry.”

“Jean,” Marco says, leaning close. “Reiner told me everything. You took off your pants and cried like a baby. And you were covered in vomit. He didn’t know what the hell to do with you. That’s why he started texting me, I think.”

“I was not that drunk,” Jean says, more to make himself feel better than anything else.

“You told him you missed me,” Marco says with a stupid, smug little smile.

“I did miss you, asshole. You should have come with me.”

“Yeah. But I told you, parties have never been my thing.”

“I used to go to them all the time,” Jean says, touching Marco’s hand that’s touching his knee. Interlocking their fingers.

“You seem the type.”

Jean doesn’t ask what Marco means by that. “I want fuck you.”

Marco smiles, nose wrinkling. “You certainly have your priorities straight. Do you realize you smell like someone who slept in their own puke?”

“I threw up twice on the walk back,” Jean says, covering his eyes, “I really don’t want to think about it anymore than I have to. I didn’t mean right now.”

“Yeah I know.”

“So if I promise to stay away from all parties for the rest of forever will you let me?”

“You don’t have to change who you are for me,” Marco says. “I’m not asking that.”

“I didn’t really have any fun last night anyway. Is that a no?”

“It’s a maybe. Let’s talk about this when you don’t look like your eyes about to melt out of your face, huh?”

“And we’ll actually talk?”

Marco scowls, narrowing his eyes. “Yes, of course, okay?”

“Okay.” Jean agrees. Though it feels weird. Like Marco is avoiding the topic on purpose. But Jean’s headache is grateful for Marco’s reluctance. Slowly Jean lowers himself back to the bed, resting his head on his pillows and closing his eyes. After a moment he opens them again. Marco hasn’t moved, his hand is still interlocked with Jean’s. “Tell Reiner I stole his hoodie,” he says.

“Is that where you got it? I thought it looked too big,” Marco responds, grinning.

Jean returns the grin.

If nothing else can be said for the two of them, at least they have that.

 

“When’s your flight?” Jean asks, later that night, after he’s napped and showered and generally acted like a living person again.

“Thursday,” Marco says, toweling Jean’s hair dry. It feels strange, overly affectionate, but Jean hadn’t refused him when he’d asked.

“And we won’t see each other for like a month and a half.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Jean. I’ll be coming back for winter semester.”

Jean leans his head back. “That’s still like three weeks.”

“You have my number, I’ll be texting you. And there’s always Skype,” Marco says, tossing the damp towel toward the bathroom door. “Is this about what happened over Thanksgiving?”

“No. This is about last night.”

Marco frowns, brow furrowing. Jean rolls his shoulders.

“I just got to thinking,” he says when Marco doesn’t say anything, “neither of us are really good at talking.”

“And you think fucking will help that?” Marco asks, raising an eyebrow. That frown has gone nowhere.

“A little.”

Marco is the one who had started the sex stuff anyway, Jean can’t help wanting to take things further. Marco sighs, expression softening. He leans his head down and kisses the top of Jean’s head, wraps his arms around Jean’s shoulders.

“You’ll hate the reason,” Marco says quietly, lips moving over the shell of Jean’s ear.

“The reason what?” Jean says, turning his head. Marco’s face is too close to clearly judge his expression. Jean tilts his own head back.

“You’ll take it personally.”

“Is it personal?”

“Maybe a little.”

Jean frowns, turning to clamber back onto the bed. Marco leans back. Their knees touch. “You know you have to tell me now, right?” he says, keeping his tone light. It’s more than just a little bit difficult.

Marco sighs. Jean traces the curve of his neck, lets his gaze linger at Marco’s hairline. There’s a faint bruise further forward. Jean had been careful since then to leave his marks in less visible places, though Marco had claimed he didn’t really care. “I’m just worried,” Marco says.

“Worried about what?”

“Did you really--I mean really, really, Jean--really not want Reiner to fuck you?”

The question sort of catches Jean off-guard. He tips his head. “What the hell? I mean, no, I didn’t. But like what’s that--,”

“And Mikasa? I listened to you talk about her for weeks, months. Then all of the sudden, nothing? Me? Too good to be true,” Marco narrows his eyes, talking more to himself than Jean.

“You don’t believe me?”

“It’s not that,” Marco says, looking up. “Er. Well. I guess it kind of is. But you’re--,”

“Taking it really personally,” Jean finishes for him. Frowning.

“I knew you would,” Marco says, quietly. No help for it, like there never was. But how could he not take it personally? He was the reason Marco didn’t want to take their relationship further. Jean digs his fingers into his knee. A month ago, he’d already be gone at this point in the conversation, he wouldn’t have been able to handle all the anger and the shame.

But he’s been trying to get better.

So he forces himself to stay.

Marco seems to realize this too. He brushes his knuckles along Jean’s thigh. Contradicting his words in a subtle, cutting way. Jean doesn’t even think he’s realized he’s doing it.

“So what,” Jean asks, “you think, if we do it, that I’ll think about Mikasa or Reiner or something?” He can’t help the tone, the slight quiver of hurt in his words.

Marco shrugs. “Yeah, kind of.” Blunt. Jean looks away. “I mean, no offense, but you didn’t exactly do a stellar job of proving me wrong yesterday.”

“Shut the fuck up, Marco.” Jean is standing now, temper flaring. Even though he desperately doesn’t want it to. He wants to be able to sit with Marco and talk about this rationally. Discuss and address Marco’s worries. But he wasn’t built for adulthood, adult reactions. “You could have come with me last night if you were so worried about it. You could have not sent some piece of man-muscle to look after me, you could have just been there.”

Marco frowns, opens his mouth to speak. But Jean doesn’t want to hear it. He pushes on Marco’s shoulder, grips the material of Marco’s shirt in his hands. Shakes him lightly.

“Don’t say a word,” Jean says, low. Marco’s expression evens out. Some of Jean’s anger fades, but he doesn’t let go. 

He shoves his knee in between Marco’s and without a word of complaint or dissent, Marco spreads his legs further. He doesn’t look away from Jean’s face.

Jean really doesn’t know what he’s planning or what he’s doing.

But he’s always been good at making shit up as he goes along.

Well, sort of, at least.

He leans forward, crushing Marco’s lips with his own, grinding his knee into Marco’s crotch. Probably too hard, too rough. Marco opens his mouth to gasp against Jean’s, grunting just slightly. His hands are fisted in Jean’s comforter, knuckles white. Discomfort. Jean can read that much. He pulls his knee back just slightly.

“I don’t know how to make you believe me,” Jean says, aware that he doesn’t sound as angry or commanding as he’d wanted. Pleading almost. Why he isn’t quite sure. “I can promise you that I won’t, that I wouldn’t, but.” He blinks. Swallows. Moves his hands from Marco’s shirt to his face, tracing Marco’s freckles with his thumbs. “And I mean,” he moves his knee again, pressing lighter, rubbing up against the apex of Marco’s jeans, “actions speak louder than words right. So maybe I can.” Jean licks his lips.

He doesn’t know if Marco is aware of the way his eyes trace the movement. Or the way Marco licks his own, copying. Little things. Unconscious.

Jean drops his leg from the bed, sinks to his knees a second later. The height of the bed makes the positioning awkward. Marco’s hips are too far back, Jean’s face is too low. Blushing Jean sits up straighter, weight on his knees proper, instead of his shins.

“You really--,” Marco is saying, looking down at Jean with an expression Jean doesn’t really know how to read.

“I really what?” Jean asks when Marco trails off. 

“I’m just not sure what you’re trying to prove is all,” Marco says, scooting forward when Jean tugs at his belt loops.

“That I’m awesome and selfless and totally down for sucking cock. Just yours though. Err and I. I don’t know. I mean, it’s not like I can think about anyone else while doing that right? So you. Don’t have to worry?”

Marco stares at Jean’s face for a second, lips pursed, eyes narrowed, and Jean wonders what he’s said wrong this time, but then his expression breaks and Marco chuckles. “Blowjobs: the quick fix for trust issues.”

“More like the start of a solution? I was serious, I’m not going to go to any more parties ever in my life again ever. And I’ll swear off alcohol,” even the word makes his stomach lurch, this morning all-too fresh, “and we can do like trust building exercises or something. Later. But right now I just.”

“I get it.”

“So can I?”

Marco hangs his head, his bangs hanging down into his face. Jean grins up at him. “You’ve never done it before?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“But I,” Marco flushes, “I like hearing it.”

“Is the corruption of my virginity some sort of major turn on to you?” Jean asks, tone light. Completely kidding. But Marco swallows and his knees press inward, pushing against Jean’s shoulders and Jean isn’t quite sure how he’d missed it before. “Oh.”

“You’re really dense,” Marco says, like he can read what Jean was thinking. Smiling faintly.

Jean smiles back, fingers tracing the waistband of Marco’s jeans. “I’ve never done it before. You’re my,” he licks his lips, “this is the first. You’re the first person I’ve ever,” Jean swallows, blushing. Shy now, he isn’t sure why. Doesn’t know how to justify it, “ever wanted to do this for.”

Marco touches his face, thumb running along his jaw, up his cheek. “Okay.” he says.

Okay.

Such a small word for something so big.

Jean grins, tugging the plackets of Marco’s pants apart in a move that has become routine. Marco’s hands move from his face to the bed, supporting his weight, fingers digging into the bedspread. Knuckles white. Not discomfort this time. His smile falters only slightly when Jean touches his cock, bottom lip slipping between his teeth, corners of his eyes clenching just so. Jean takes it all in. Commits every motion to memory. Every little shudder.

Somewhere in all that memorizing, he loses track of what his original goal was.

“Jean are you,” Marco breathes. His cock twitches in Jean’s hand.

Jean blinks down at it, looks back up at Marco. Licks his lips. “Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat, leaning forward to fill the space better. “Sorry. I just.”

Marco chuckles, blushing and aroused and better than Jean deserves.

Jean pushes the thought away by wrapping his lips around Marco’s dick, kissing the head. Marco shudders above him, knees tensing, pressing against Jean’s shoulders. Jean wants to look up at his face, but he can’t really focus past the feel of the flesh under his tongue, the firm press of Marco’s erection.

The newness of everything.

Jean opens his mouth, moving his head to take more of Marco in. He tries to make it graceful, but he can already feel the drool escaping out of the corner of his mouth, dripping onto his chin.

Every noise Marco makes goes straight to his ego, every quiet little gasp of Jean’s name, every shuddering sigh. Marco isn’t loud, but he doesn’t have to be.

Jean grips the base of Marco’s cock, fingers stroking what he hasn’t figured out how to reach yet. He manages to tilt his head, glancing up at Marco’s face when his canine clips the tip of Marco’s dick. Marco hisses, hands jumping from the bed to Jean’s hair. Instantaneous. And not out of comfort.

“Sorry,” Jean says, quickly, touching the spot where he’d nicked, rubbing small circles with his thumb.

Marco swallows. His grip softens, fingers unclenching to pet through Jean’s hair, instead of pulling. “It’s okay.”

“I didn’t even--,”

“I said it’s okay.” Marco says over him. “Just.” He tugs lightly on Jean’s hair, urging him back in.

“But I mean. Besides that,” Jean babbles. Unable to help himself. Eager for praise, “has it been. I mean are you--,”

“Jesus fuck, Jean, yes. It’s good.”

“I’m good?” Jean presses, grinning. Shameless.

“You’re good for someone who’s never done it before.”

“Then tell me how to make it better.” Because Jean wants to be more than just good. He lets Marco drag his face back, opens his mouth.

“Use more tongue,” Marco sighs, curling into himself, petting into Jean’s hair, stroking the strands. “And. Fuck.” Jean’s mouth twitches, corners curling up into a smile but never quite making it. “Y-you could,” his hips flex, Jean can feel the movement under his palms. Marco is coming undone, falling to pieces, losing his cool. And Jean is the cause of it all.

He does as instructed, pushes his tongue against Marco’s length, pressing it flat. Marco makes a strangled sort of sound at that, harsh and panting. They’ve done this sort of thing enough that Jean recognizes the breathing. Marco is close.

It’s thrilling. A better high than being drunk. A better high than being high. Jean takes Marco’s cock as deep as he can, gags but doesn’t choke, tries to force his throat to relax. Marco’s hips move again, not held down by Jean’s hands now and it drives him further into Jean’s mouth.

It’s apparently enough, Marco’s hands flutter on Jean’s head and he makes a noise, voice catching and drawing out ragged and probably something Jean should hear but Jean’s too focused and a few seconds later Marco freezes and groans and Jean’s mouth is suddenly full of liquid. A rush of it. Salty and warm, splashing against Jean’s tongue and his throat. Jean gags again, he draws in breath through his nose but it’s too late, he’s over thought the process of breathing and his body tenses. He pulls off, coughing into his fist. His mouth tastes weird, thick. Reminiscent of Marco’s come.

“Sorry,” Marco says before Jean can, blushing.

“It was my fault,” Jean says. “I shouldn’t have ignored your warning.”

“It wasn’t really much of one, I guess,” he smiles, cheeks dimpling. “Are you hard?”

Jean blinks, shifts on his knees. He is, but he doesn’t see what the point is in Marco’s asking. “This was supposed to be about you.”

“Because you’re selfless, I heard. But,” Marco shifts his knees together, patting the bed, “I think we should make this about both of us, okay? And maybe you can pick something up from experiencing it.” Somewhere in there is an insult to Jean’s technique, but Jean doesn’t look at it too hard. He shakes his head when Marco touches his hair again.

“Selfless,” he says. “Just get me back next time.”

“In three weeks,” Marco reminds him, voice quiet. Luring. He grins in that way that makes his nose wrinkle. Jean shrugs out of his grip and stands. He wants to kiss the self-sureness out of that grin, but stops himself just as he leans forward. Marco seems to notice the hesitation. “I don’t really care,” he says, touching Jean’s arm, “you can kiss me if that’s what you wanted.”

“But I--,”

“I don’t care.” Marco insists, moving his hand to Jean’s neck. Pulling the two of them together. His other hand smoothes over Jean’s waist, fingers plucking at his shirt. Jean twists, making a small noise against Marco’s mouth.

“I’m supposed to be making a huge gesture here,” Jean argues, though his voice wavers as he says it. Betraying him. Marco leans his chin on Jean’s chest, looking up at his face with an expression somewhere between devious and sultry, some terrible mix of the two. Jean is helpless against such a face, helpless when it comes to Marco.

And after, when he’s sticky and spent and trying to catalogue all the details and things Marco had done with his tongue, he doesn’t feel a shred of guilt for breaking.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who read Old College Try, the amazing positive feedback def helped me crank this one out faster. I'm always willing to write more of these two, so if you have any comments or requests or idk, whatever, you can always send them to my tumblr (http://vrunkas.tumblr.com/) or post them here orrr yeah. Thanks again guys!


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